Small Town
by EOlivet
Summary: He was looking at her as if he'd never seen her before, and she realized he hadn't.


Disclaimer: The characters you recognize described herein are the property of Hank Steinberg, Jerry Bruckheimer Television Productions and CBS. All other characters are my creation. No copyright infringement is intended.  
  
Rating: TV PG. Jack and Samantha pairing.  
  
A/N: D, S and MSt: I :wub: you.  
  
***  
  
Small Town  
  
***  
  
Her skirt was long, but it was a little too long. Her blouse was short, but it was a little too short. Washing her hair had actually made it flatter, certainly flatter than if she'd been able to use her own shampoo and blow it dry, and it was then that Sam decided she needed a cigarette, even though she hadn't smoked in over ten years.  
  
Of course, the airline had to lose her luggage now, en route to the middle of nowhere. Not in DC or Chicago or Seattle, where she could just go downtown and pick up virtual copies of whatever she was missing. They had taken small planes -- small planes landing in small towns, where somewhere along the line there was a small mishap, and they'd lost her luggage. It would've been easy to simply stay in her New York clothes the whole time, but it had been cold when they left the city and she'd made the mistake of wearing wool. There was no way she could wear wool here -- not even with the sleeves pushed up over her elbows (which her mother had always said was bad for the clothes, though she'd never seen any real evidence to indicate that was true).  
  
She was going to need new clothes. New, small-town clothes.  
  
There were local agents already working on the case -- the two of them were just there to help, to consult -- so while he checked them into the small town motel and checked in with the local office, she could afford the time to take the car to the local mall and get herself some replacement clothes.  
  
Nothing fit -- or fit quite right. The styles were a couple seasons -- or years -- behind what they sold in the city. Did it really take them _that_ long to ship the clothes out here, she wondered. The fabrics felt coarse and synthetic, and they made her skin itch. The pants were baggy and tight in all the wrong places, the skirts were a hair too long or a hair too short and the tops all hit at the least flattering place on the waist.  
  
"Are you OK in there?" the cheerful sales girl asked in that thick accent Sam had almost forgotten how to understand.  
  
"I'm fine!" she responded, her mouth closing in shock as she heard her own words tinged with a similar accent that she hadn't heard in years.  
  
She hastily bought a couple skirts and blouses -- enough to get through a few days, then headed to the makeup and lingerie departments, as her lost suitcase had left her totally without any of the necessities of travel.  
  
Back at the motel, she retrieved her room key from Jack and decided to get cleaned up there. They had two rooms for appearances sake, but today for some reason, she felt like using her own shower.  
  
She set her purchases down on the bed. The room smelled like small town. The water was hard, but the same could not be said for the water pressure. Her good shampoo was lost somewhere between here and civilization, so she was forced to use some recognizable brand she'd picked up at the drug store. The outlet for her just-purchased hair dryer conked out, and she cursed loudly at it in that same accent she'd heard from herself in the store. The department store makeup was cakey, and she ended up wiping it off. The clothes were itchy and out of style and it was then that she felt that familiar craving -- when her instincts kicked in and she exited her room, searching for the motel employees who would inevitably be on break.  
  
There were two of them sitting out by the pool -- she had seen them at the front desk earlier. All wearing skirts, blouses and cakey makeup. Three of a kind.  
  
"Do you mind?" she asked them in that accent that now seemed to follow her wherever she went. "I've had a really bad day."  
  
The women exchanged a glance. This girl was not from around here, yet she was familiar enough that one of them handed her a cigarette, while the other one offered her a light.  
  
"Thank you," she replied, between her teeth.  
  
She coughed slightly as she inhaled, but the feeling brought it all back. Long afternoons and evenings and a life long, long ago, back when she dreamed of losing her accent and never again wearing clothes that were too long or too short or makeup that was too cakey. She had gotten out, and this tasted of those who had stayed behind.  
  
She walked idly back to the room, taking short drags of her cigarette along the way. Leaning against the car, she had just exhaled another cloud of smoke when the door to his room opened.  
  
"Sam--" He stopped when he saw her.  
  
Frozen even in the blistering heat, the cigarette dangled from her fingers -- ash building up on the end, smoke billowing harmlessly into the afternoon air. He was looking at her as if he'd never seen her before and, with a start, she realized he hadn't. Not this girl that she was anyway.  
  
This was not what she dreamed of, not what she imagined for herself in those days. He looked, smelled and tasted like the city. Even if she hadn't lost her suitcase, she still fit right back into this small town life, no matter how hard she tried to get away from it. It had nothing to do with what clothes or makeup she was wearing or the fact that she was smoking or even that her accent had come back. It was more than that.  
  
Looking at him, she was acutely aware that he was an older, married man and she was a younger, small town...homewrecker.  
  
Funny how it had never seemed that way in the city -- when she could couch their attraction in professional proximity, their relationship in mutual need, their feelings as reasonable and understandable. It was almost as if she'd focused on every aspect of the affair but the affair itself. But now...here...she remembered.  
  
The cigarette dropped from her hand, her foot darting out from long- forgotten habit to grind it into the ground. As if she was at work and her boss had caught her smoking. As if...  
  
She swallowed, tasting the burn in her throat and fanned the air around her, as if that would somehow get rid of the smell. Feeling shy, awkward...uncomfortable around him all of a sudden.  
  
Her discomfort was contagious, and he was staring at her almost as if he'd forgotten how to talk to her. "I spoke with the field office. They found the kid this morning." His tone was neutral.  
  
"Alive?"  
  
He didn't answer.  
  
Her emotions mutinied against her conscience. That's why you go back to him, they reminded her. Why he goes back to you. Because of days like this. Her feet were done listening to reason, and they slowly scraped against the ground as she moved toward him. He opened the door to his room and closed it behind her as she just walked in and stood there.  
  
"Hey." He tried to soothe her, but there was clearly something in her expression that told him this would not be a good idea. Instead, he clasped his hands together, interlocking his own fingers as she stood there, unsure. "Kid was gone a few days ago. There was nothing anybody could've done."  
  
She nodded, but stayed where she was.  
  
He wanted to ask, she could tell -- he wanted to ask if she was OK. But he didn't because he'd never had to ask before -- he'd always just known. Regardless of anything she might be thinking or feeling, she at least owed him a reason for her strange behavior. Even if she wasn't sure...  
  
"I know it's wrong, but I'm in love with you."  
  
The words left her mouth and she closed her eyes, almost flinching. Had there been an accent -- the same one she'd been hearing all day -- or was this her New York voice? Blindly, she tried to explain or justify in her head what she'd just said aloud. Clearly the cigarette had liberated her tongue. Or the heat outside. Or these itchy clothes or this cakey makeup or -- or--  
  
It must be the effects of the small town. But small towns didn't condone adultery, even if there was love involved. Well they weren't supposed to, and yet... Yet, maybe she did, years ago -- when she still believed that love conquered all. Even if she knew it was wrong.  
  
She'd been so busy telling herself what this relationship couldn't mean that perhaps she'd forgotten about everything it could mean.  
  
Slowly, she opened her eyes, meeting the gaze fixed on her -- a gaze she couldn't quite place. Maybe it was one she had never seen before.  
  
"Sam," he murmured. "You know I--"  
  
But she cut him off with her lips-- not able to hear whatever would follow those words. She didn't want to know the end of that sentence, whatever it might be. You know I still love my wife. You know I can't leave my family. You know I enjoy spending time with you.  
  
You know I--  
  
The small town didn't care what came at the end of that sentence. No matter what it was, it would be wrong. Every long skirt, short top, cakey makeup- wearing, cigarette-smoking, accented small town woman knew that.  
  
She didn't care what came at the end of that sentence either. The sophisticated, put-together city woman and the small town girl playing at being from New York both knew that. No matter what, she couldn't stop what they were doing. No matter what, the end of that sentence wouldn't cause her to walk out of that room and request a transfer so she would never see him again. Because no matter what the end of that sentence was, she knew it would be true, even if it wasn't right.  
  
The End. 


End file.
